Just a whisper, half-heard,But our heart knows the word;Caresses that seemLike love’s lips in a dream;Yet we know she is here,The desirèd, the dear,The love of the year!In the murmur of boughs,In the softening of skies,In the sun on the house,In the daffodil’s green(Half an inch, half-unseenMid the mournful brown mouldWhere the rotten leaf lies)Her story is told.O Spring, darling Spring,O sweet days of blue weather!The thrushes shall sing,Fields shall grow green again,Daisies be seen again,Hedges grow white;Then down the lane,Grown leafy again,Shall go lovers together—Lovers who see againSunshine and showers,Perfume and flowers,Dewy dear hours,Dream and delight.Warm shall nests be again,Winter’s behind us;Springtime shall find us,Taking our hands,Lead us away from the cold and the snow,Into the green world where primroses grow.Winter, hard winter, forgotten, forgiven;All the old pain paid, to seventy times seven,All the new glory a-glow.Love, when Spring calls, will you still turn away?Winter has wooed you in vain, and shall May?Love, when Spring calls, will you go?
Just a whisper, half-heard,But our heart knows the word;Caresses that seemLike love’s lips in a dream;Yet we know she is here,The desirèd, the dear,The love of the year!In the murmur of boughs,In the softening of skies,In the sun on the house,In the daffodil’s green(Half an inch, half-unseenMid the mournful brown mouldWhere the rotten leaf lies)Her story is told.O Spring, darling Spring,O sweet days of blue weather!The thrushes shall sing,Fields shall grow green again,Daisies be seen again,Hedges grow white;Then down the lane,Grown leafy again,Shall go lovers together—Lovers who see againSunshine and showers,Perfume and flowers,Dewy dear hours,Dream and delight.Warm shall nests be again,Winter’s behind us;Springtime shall find us,Taking our hands,Lead us away from the cold and the snow,Into the green world where primroses grow.Winter, hard winter, forgotten, forgiven;All the old pain paid, to seventy times seven,All the new glory a-glow.Love, when Spring calls, will you still turn away?Winter has wooed you in vain, and shall May?Love, when Spring calls, will you go?
Just a whisper, half-heard,But our heart knows the word;Caresses that seemLike love’s lips in a dream;Yet we know she is here,The desirèd, the dear,The love of the year!In the murmur of boughs,In the softening of skies,In the sun on the house,In the daffodil’s green(Half an inch, half-unseenMid the mournful brown mouldWhere the rotten leaf lies)Her story is told.
O Spring, darling Spring,O sweet days of blue weather!The thrushes shall sing,Fields shall grow green again,Daisies be seen again,Hedges grow white;Then down the lane,Grown leafy again,Shall go lovers together—Lovers who see againSunshine and showers,Perfume and flowers,Dewy dear hours,Dream and delight.
Warm shall nests be again,Winter’s behind us;Springtime shall find us,Taking our hands,Lead us away from the cold and the snow,Into the green world where primroses grow.Winter, hard winter, forgotten, forgiven;All the old pain paid, to seventy times seven,All the new glory a-glow.Love, when Spring calls, will you still turn away?Winter has wooed you in vain, and shall May?Love, when Spring calls, will you go?
Let Housman sing of Severn shore,Of Thames let Arnold sing,But we will sing no river moreSave this where crowbars ring.Let others sing of Henley,Of fashion and renown,But we will sing the thirteen locksThat lead to Tonbridge town!Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.When on the level golden meadsThe evening sunshine lies,The little voles among the reedsLook out with wondering eyes.The patient anglers lingerThe placid stream beside,Where still with towering tarry prowThe stately barges glide.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.On Medway banks the May droops white,The wild rose blossoms fair,O’er meadow-sweet and loosestrife bright,For water nymphs to wear.And mid the blowing rushesPan pipes a joyous song,And woodland things peep from the shadeAs soft we glide along.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.You see no freight on Medway boatsOf fashions fine and rare,But happy men in shabby coats,And girls with wind-kissed hair.The world’s a pain forgotten,And very far away,The stream that flows, the boat that goes—These are our world to-day.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.
Let Housman sing of Severn shore,Of Thames let Arnold sing,But we will sing no river moreSave this where crowbars ring.Let others sing of Henley,Of fashion and renown,But we will sing the thirteen locksThat lead to Tonbridge town!Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.When on the level golden meadsThe evening sunshine lies,The little voles among the reedsLook out with wondering eyes.The patient anglers lingerThe placid stream beside,Where still with towering tarry prowThe stately barges glide.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.On Medway banks the May droops white,The wild rose blossoms fair,O’er meadow-sweet and loosestrife bright,For water nymphs to wear.And mid the blowing rushesPan pipes a joyous song,And woodland things peep from the shadeAs soft we glide along.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.You see no freight on Medway boatsOf fashions fine and rare,But happy men in shabby coats,And girls with wind-kissed hair.The world’s a pain forgotten,And very far away,The stream that flows, the boat that goes—These are our world to-day.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.
Let Housman sing of Severn shore,Of Thames let Arnold sing,But we will sing no river moreSave this where crowbars ring.Let others sing of Henley,Of fashion and renown,But we will sing the thirteen locksThat lead to Tonbridge town!Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.
When on the level golden meadsThe evening sunshine lies,The little voles among the reedsLook out with wondering eyes.The patient anglers lingerThe placid stream beside,Where still with towering tarry prowThe stately barges glide.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.
On Medway banks the May droops white,The wild rose blossoms fair,O’er meadow-sweet and loosestrife bright,For water nymphs to wear.And mid the blowing rushesPan pipes a joyous song,And woodland things peep from the shadeAs soft we glide along.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.
You see no freight on Medway boatsOf fashions fine and rare,But happy men in shabby coats,And girls with wind-kissed hair.The world’s a pain forgotten,And very far away,The stream that flows, the boat that goes—These are our world to-day.Then sing the Kentish river,The Kentish fields and flowers,We waste no dreams on other streamsWho call the Medway ours.
The lilies in my garden grow,Wide meadows ring my garden round,In that green copse wild violets blow,And pale, frail cuckoo flowers are found.For all you see and all you hear,The city might be miles away,And yet you feel the city nearThrough all the quiet of the day.Sweet smells the earth—wet with sweet rain—Sweet lilac waves in moonlight pale,And from the wood beyond the laneI hear the hidden nightingale.Though field and wood about me lie,Hushed soft in dew and deep delight,Yet can I hear the city’s sighThrough all the silence of the night.For me the skylark builds and sings,For me the vine her garland weaves;The swallow folds her glossy wingsTo build beneath my cottage eaves.But I can feel the giant near,Can hear his slaves by daylight weep,And, when at last the night is here,I hear him moaning in his sleep.Oh! for a little space of ground,Though not a flower should make it gay,Where miles of meadows wrapped me round,And leagues and leagues of silence lay.Oh! for a wind-lashed, treeless down,A black night and a rising sea,And never a thought of London town,To steal the world’s delight from me.
The lilies in my garden grow,Wide meadows ring my garden round,In that green copse wild violets blow,And pale, frail cuckoo flowers are found.For all you see and all you hear,The city might be miles away,And yet you feel the city nearThrough all the quiet of the day.Sweet smells the earth—wet with sweet rain—Sweet lilac waves in moonlight pale,And from the wood beyond the laneI hear the hidden nightingale.Though field and wood about me lie,Hushed soft in dew and deep delight,Yet can I hear the city’s sighThrough all the silence of the night.For me the skylark builds and sings,For me the vine her garland weaves;The swallow folds her glossy wingsTo build beneath my cottage eaves.But I can feel the giant near,Can hear his slaves by daylight weep,And, when at last the night is here,I hear him moaning in his sleep.Oh! for a little space of ground,Though not a flower should make it gay,Where miles of meadows wrapped me round,And leagues and leagues of silence lay.Oh! for a wind-lashed, treeless down,A black night and a rising sea,And never a thought of London town,To steal the world’s delight from me.
The lilies in my garden grow,Wide meadows ring my garden round,In that green copse wild violets blow,And pale, frail cuckoo flowers are found.For all you see and all you hear,The city might be miles away,And yet you feel the city nearThrough all the quiet of the day.
Sweet smells the earth—wet with sweet rain—Sweet lilac waves in moonlight pale,And from the wood beyond the laneI hear the hidden nightingale.Though field and wood about me lie,Hushed soft in dew and deep delight,Yet can I hear the city’s sighThrough all the silence of the night.
For me the skylark builds and sings,For me the vine her garland weaves;The swallow folds her glossy wingsTo build beneath my cottage eaves.But I can feel the giant near,Can hear his slaves by daylight weep,And, when at last the night is here,I hear him moaning in his sleep.
Oh! for a little space of ground,Though not a flower should make it gay,Where miles of meadows wrapped me round,And leagues and leagues of silence lay.Oh! for a wind-lashed, treeless down,A black night and a rising sea,And never a thought of London town,To steal the world’s delight from me.
The day was wild with wind and rain,One grey wrapped sky and sea and shore,It seemed our marsh would never againWear the rich robes that once it wore.The scattered farms looked sad and chill,Their sheltering trees writhed all awry,And waves of mist broke on the hillWhere once the great sea thundered by.Then God remembered this His land,This little land that is our own,He caught the rain up in His hand,He hid the winds behind His throne,He soothed the fretful waves to rest,He called the clouds to come away,And, by blue pathways, to the west,They went, like children tired of play.And then God bade our marsh put onIts holy vestment of fine gold;From marge to marge the glory shoneOn lichened farm and fence and fold;In the gold sky that walled the west,In each transfigured stone and tree,The glory of God was manifest,Plain for a little child to see!
The day was wild with wind and rain,One grey wrapped sky and sea and shore,It seemed our marsh would never againWear the rich robes that once it wore.The scattered farms looked sad and chill,Their sheltering trees writhed all awry,And waves of mist broke on the hillWhere once the great sea thundered by.Then God remembered this His land,This little land that is our own,He caught the rain up in His hand,He hid the winds behind His throne,He soothed the fretful waves to rest,He called the clouds to come away,And, by blue pathways, to the west,They went, like children tired of play.And then God bade our marsh put onIts holy vestment of fine gold;From marge to marge the glory shoneOn lichened farm and fence and fold;In the gold sky that walled the west,In each transfigured stone and tree,The glory of God was manifest,Plain for a little child to see!
The day was wild with wind and rain,One grey wrapped sky and sea and shore,It seemed our marsh would never againWear the rich robes that once it wore.The scattered farms looked sad and chill,Their sheltering trees writhed all awry,And waves of mist broke on the hillWhere once the great sea thundered by.
Then God remembered this His land,This little land that is our own,He caught the rain up in His hand,He hid the winds behind His throne,He soothed the fretful waves to rest,He called the clouds to come away,And, by blue pathways, to the west,They went, like children tired of play.
And then God bade our marsh put onIts holy vestment of fine gold;From marge to marge the glory shoneOn lichened farm and fence and fold;In the gold sky that walled the west,In each transfigured stone and tree,The glory of God was manifest,Plain for a little child to see!
Through her fair world of blossoms fresh and bright,Veiled with her maiden innocence, she goes;Not all the splendour of the waxing lightShe sees, nor all the colour of the rose;And yet who knows what finer hues she sees,Hid by our wisdom from our longing eyes?Who knows what light she sees in skies and seasWhich is withholden from our seas and skies?Shod with her youth the thorny paths she treadsAnd feels not yet the treachery of the thorn,Her crown of lilies still its perfume shedsWhere Love, the thorny crown, not yet is borne.Yet in the mystery of her peaceful wayWho knows what fears beset her innocence,Who, trembling, learns that thorns will wound some day,And wonders what thorns are, and why, and whence?
Through her fair world of blossoms fresh and bright,Veiled with her maiden innocence, she goes;Not all the splendour of the waxing lightShe sees, nor all the colour of the rose;And yet who knows what finer hues she sees,Hid by our wisdom from our longing eyes?Who knows what light she sees in skies and seasWhich is withholden from our seas and skies?Shod with her youth the thorny paths she treadsAnd feels not yet the treachery of the thorn,Her crown of lilies still its perfume shedsWhere Love, the thorny crown, not yet is borne.Yet in the mystery of her peaceful wayWho knows what fears beset her innocence,Who, trembling, learns that thorns will wound some day,And wonders what thorns are, and why, and whence?
Through her fair world of blossoms fresh and bright,Veiled with her maiden innocence, she goes;Not all the splendour of the waxing lightShe sees, nor all the colour of the rose;And yet who knows what finer hues she sees,Hid by our wisdom from our longing eyes?Who knows what light she sees in skies and seasWhich is withholden from our seas and skies?
Shod with her youth the thorny paths she treadsAnd feels not yet the treachery of the thorn,Her crown of lilies still its perfume shedsWhere Love, the thorny crown, not yet is borne.Yet in the mystery of her peaceful wayWho knows what fears beset her innocence,Who, trembling, learns that thorns will wound some day,And wonders what thorns are, and why, and whence?
When in my narrow cell I lie,The long day’s penance done at last,I see the ghosts of days gone by,And hear the voices of the past.I see the blue-gray wood-smoke curledFrom hearths where life has rhymed to love,I see the kingdoms of the world—The glory and the power thereof,And cry, “Ah, vainly have I striven!”And then a voice calls, soft and low:“Thou gavest My Earth to win My Heaven;But Heaven-on-Earth thou mayest not know!”It is not for Thy Heaven, O Lord,That I renounced Thy pleasant earth—The ship, the furrow, and the sword—The dreams of death, the dreams of birth!Weary of vigil, fast, and prayer,Weak in my hope and in my faith—O Christ, for whom this cross I bear,Meet me beside the gate of Death!When the night comes, then let me rest(O Christ, who sanctifiest pain!)Falling asleep upon Thy breast,And, if Thou wilt, wake never again!
When in my narrow cell I lie,The long day’s penance done at last,I see the ghosts of days gone by,And hear the voices of the past.I see the blue-gray wood-smoke curledFrom hearths where life has rhymed to love,I see the kingdoms of the world—The glory and the power thereof,And cry, “Ah, vainly have I striven!”And then a voice calls, soft and low:“Thou gavest My Earth to win My Heaven;But Heaven-on-Earth thou mayest not know!”It is not for Thy Heaven, O Lord,That I renounced Thy pleasant earth—The ship, the furrow, and the sword—The dreams of death, the dreams of birth!Weary of vigil, fast, and prayer,Weak in my hope and in my faith—O Christ, for whom this cross I bear,Meet me beside the gate of Death!When the night comes, then let me rest(O Christ, who sanctifiest pain!)Falling asleep upon Thy breast,And, if Thou wilt, wake never again!
When in my narrow cell I lie,The long day’s penance done at last,I see the ghosts of days gone by,And hear the voices of the past.
I see the blue-gray wood-smoke curledFrom hearths where life has rhymed to love,I see the kingdoms of the world—The glory and the power thereof,And cry, “Ah, vainly have I striven!”And then a voice calls, soft and low:“Thou gavest My Earth to win My Heaven;But Heaven-on-Earth thou mayest not know!”
It is not for Thy Heaven, O Lord,That I renounced Thy pleasant earth—The ship, the furrow, and the sword—The dreams of death, the dreams of birth!
Weary of vigil, fast, and prayer,Weak in my hope and in my faith—O Christ, for whom this cross I bear,Meet me beside the gate of Death!
When the night comes, then let me rest(O Christ, who sanctifiest pain!)Falling asleep upon Thy breast,And, if Thou wilt, wake never again!
The days, the doubts, the dreams of painAre over, not to come again,And from the menace of the nightHas dawned the day-star of delight:My baby lies against me pressed—Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed!His little head upon my arm,His little body soft and warm,His little feet that cannot standHeld in the heart of this, my hand.His little mouth close on my breast—Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed.All dreams of deeds, all deeds of dayAre very faint and far away,Yet you some day will stand uprightAnd fight God’s foes, in manhood’s might,You—tiny, worshipped, clasped, caressed—Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.Whatever grief may come to beThis hour divine goes on for me.All glorious is my little span,Since I, like God, have made a man,A little image of God’s best—Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed.Come change, come loss, come worlds of tears,Come endless chain of empty years;They cannot take away the hourThat gives me You—my bird, my flower!Thank God for this! Leave God the rest!—Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.
The days, the doubts, the dreams of painAre over, not to come again,And from the menace of the nightHas dawned the day-star of delight:My baby lies against me pressed—Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed!His little head upon my arm,His little body soft and warm,His little feet that cannot standHeld in the heart of this, my hand.His little mouth close on my breast—Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed.All dreams of deeds, all deeds of dayAre very faint and far away,Yet you some day will stand uprightAnd fight God’s foes, in manhood’s might,You—tiny, worshipped, clasped, caressed—Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.Whatever grief may come to beThis hour divine goes on for me.All glorious is my little span,Since I, like God, have made a man,A little image of God’s best—Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed.Come change, come loss, come worlds of tears,Come endless chain of empty years;They cannot take away the hourThat gives me You—my bird, my flower!Thank God for this! Leave God the rest!—Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.
The days, the doubts, the dreams of painAre over, not to come again,And from the menace of the nightHas dawned the day-star of delight:My baby lies against me pressed—Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed!
His little head upon my arm,His little body soft and warm,His little feet that cannot standHeld in the heart of this, my hand.His little mouth close on my breast—Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed.
All dreams of deeds, all deeds of dayAre very faint and far away,Yet you some day will stand uprightAnd fight God’s foes, in manhood’s might,You—tiny, worshipped, clasped, caressed—Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.
Whatever grief may come to beThis hour divine goes on for me.All glorious is my little span,Since I, like God, have made a man,A little image of God’s best—Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed.
Come change, come loss, come worlds of tears,Come endless chain of empty years;They cannot take away the hourThat gives me You—my bird, my flower!Thank God for this! Leave God the rest!—Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.
This is Christ’s birthday: long agoHe lay upon His Mother’s knee,Who kissed and blessed Him soft and low—God’s gift to her, as you to me.My baby dear, my little one,The love that rocks this cradling breastIs such as Mary gave her Son:She was more honoured, not more blest.He smiled as you smile: not more sweetThan your eyes were those eyes of His,And just such little hands and feetAs yours Our Lady used to kiss.The world’s desire that Mother bore:She held a King upon her knee:O King of all my world, and moreThan all the world’s desire to me!I thank God on the Christmas morn,For He has given me all things good:This body which a child has borne,This breast, made holy for his food.High in high heaven Our Lady’s throneBeside her Son’s stands up apart:I sit on heaven’s steps aloneAnd hold my king against my heart.Across dark depths she hears your cry;She sees your smile, through worlds of blueWho was a mother, even as I,And loved her Child, as I love you.And to her heart my babe is dear,Because she bore the Babe Divine,And all my soul to hers draws near,And loves Him for the sake of mine!
This is Christ’s birthday: long agoHe lay upon His Mother’s knee,Who kissed and blessed Him soft and low—God’s gift to her, as you to me.My baby dear, my little one,The love that rocks this cradling breastIs such as Mary gave her Son:She was more honoured, not more blest.He smiled as you smile: not more sweetThan your eyes were those eyes of His,And just such little hands and feetAs yours Our Lady used to kiss.The world’s desire that Mother bore:She held a King upon her knee:O King of all my world, and moreThan all the world’s desire to me!I thank God on the Christmas morn,For He has given me all things good:This body which a child has borne,This breast, made holy for his food.High in high heaven Our Lady’s throneBeside her Son’s stands up apart:I sit on heaven’s steps aloneAnd hold my king against my heart.Across dark depths she hears your cry;She sees your smile, through worlds of blueWho was a mother, even as I,And loved her Child, as I love you.And to her heart my babe is dear,Because she bore the Babe Divine,And all my soul to hers draws near,And loves Him for the sake of mine!
This is Christ’s birthday: long agoHe lay upon His Mother’s knee,Who kissed and blessed Him soft and low—God’s gift to her, as you to me.
My baby dear, my little one,The love that rocks this cradling breastIs such as Mary gave her Son:She was more honoured, not more blest.
He smiled as you smile: not more sweetThan your eyes were those eyes of His,And just such little hands and feetAs yours Our Lady used to kiss.
The world’s desire that Mother bore:She held a King upon her knee:O King of all my world, and moreThan all the world’s desire to me!
I thank God on the Christmas morn,For He has given me all things good:This body which a child has borne,This breast, made holy for his food.
High in high heaven Our Lady’s throneBeside her Son’s stands up apart:I sit on heaven’s steps aloneAnd hold my king against my heart.
Across dark depths she hears your cry;She sees your smile, through worlds of blueWho was a mother, even as I,And loved her Child, as I love you.
And to her heart my babe is dear,Because she bore the Babe Divine,And all my soul to hers draws near,And loves Him for the sake of mine!
Not to the terrible God, avenging, bright,Whose altars struck their roots in flame and blood,Not to the jealous God, whose merciless mightThe infamy of unclean years withstood;But to the God who lit the evening star,Who taught the flower to blossom in delight,Who taught His world what love and worship areWe pray, we two, to-night.To no vast Presence too immense to love,To no enthronèd King too great to care,To no strange Spirit human needs aboveWe bring our little, intimate, heart-warm prayer;But to the God who is a Father too,The Father who loved and gave His only SonWe pray across the cradle, I and you,For ours, our little one!
Not to the terrible God, avenging, bright,Whose altars struck their roots in flame and blood,Not to the jealous God, whose merciless mightThe infamy of unclean years withstood;But to the God who lit the evening star,Who taught the flower to blossom in delight,Who taught His world what love and worship areWe pray, we two, to-night.To no vast Presence too immense to love,To no enthronèd King too great to care,To no strange Spirit human needs aboveWe bring our little, intimate, heart-warm prayer;But to the God who is a Father too,The Father who loved and gave His only SonWe pray across the cradle, I and you,For ours, our little one!
Not to the terrible God, avenging, bright,Whose altars struck their roots in flame and blood,Not to the jealous God, whose merciless mightThe infamy of unclean years withstood;But to the God who lit the evening star,Who taught the flower to blossom in delight,Who taught His world what love and worship areWe pray, we two, to-night.
To no vast Presence too immense to love,To no enthronèd King too great to care,To no strange Spirit human needs aboveWe bring our little, intimate, heart-warm prayer;But to the God who is a Father too,The Father who loved and gave His only SonWe pray across the cradle, I and you,For ours, our little one!
O Christ, born on the holy day,I have no gift to give my King;No flowers grow by my weary way;I have no birthday song to sing.How can I sing Thy name and praise,Who never saw Thy face divine;Who walk in darkness all my days,And see no Eastern stars a-shine?Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring,How can I leave Thy praise unsung?How stay from homage to the King,And hold a silent, grudging tongue?Lord, I found many a song to sing,And many a humble hymn of praiseFor Thy great Miracle of Spring,The wonder of the waxing days.When I beheld Thy days and years,Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth?The moons of love, the years of tears,The mysteries of death and birth?Have I not sung with all my soulWhile soul and song were mine to yield,Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control,The dewy clover of Thy field?Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts,Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade;Have I not made me holy feastsOf all the beauty Thou hast made?What though my tear-tired eyes, alas!Won never grace Thy face to see?I heard Thy footstep on the grass,Thy voice in every wind-blown tree.No music now I make or win,Yet, Lord, remember I have beenThe lover of Thy world, whereinI found nought common or unclean.Grown old and blind, I sing no more,Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong,Yet take the songs I made of yoreFor echoes to Thy birthday song.
O Christ, born on the holy day,I have no gift to give my King;No flowers grow by my weary way;I have no birthday song to sing.How can I sing Thy name and praise,Who never saw Thy face divine;Who walk in darkness all my days,And see no Eastern stars a-shine?Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring,How can I leave Thy praise unsung?How stay from homage to the King,And hold a silent, grudging tongue?Lord, I found many a song to sing,And many a humble hymn of praiseFor Thy great Miracle of Spring,The wonder of the waxing days.When I beheld Thy days and years,Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth?The moons of love, the years of tears,The mysteries of death and birth?Have I not sung with all my soulWhile soul and song were mine to yield,Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control,The dewy clover of Thy field?Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts,Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade;Have I not made me holy feastsOf all the beauty Thou hast made?What though my tear-tired eyes, alas!Won never grace Thy face to see?I heard Thy footstep on the grass,Thy voice in every wind-blown tree.No music now I make or win,Yet, Lord, remember I have beenThe lover of Thy world, whereinI found nought common or unclean.Grown old and blind, I sing no more,Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong,Yet take the songs I made of yoreFor echoes to Thy birthday song.
O Christ, born on the holy day,I have no gift to give my King;No flowers grow by my weary way;I have no birthday song to sing.
How can I sing Thy name and praise,Who never saw Thy face divine;Who walk in darkness all my days,And see no Eastern stars a-shine?
Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring,How can I leave Thy praise unsung?How stay from homage to the King,And hold a silent, grudging tongue?
Lord, I found many a song to sing,And many a humble hymn of praiseFor Thy great Miracle of Spring,The wonder of the waxing days.
When I beheld Thy days and years,Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth?The moons of love, the years of tears,The mysteries of death and birth?
Have I not sung with all my soulWhile soul and song were mine to yield,Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control,The dewy clover of Thy field?
Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts,Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade;Have I not made me holy feastsOf all the beauty Thou hast made?
What though my tear-tired eyes, alas!Won never grace Thy face to see?I heard Thy footstep on the grass,Thy voice in every wind-blown tree.
No music now I make or win,Yet, Lord, remember I have beenThe lover of Thy world, whereinI found nought common or unclean.
Grown old and blind, I sing no more,Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong,Yet take the songs I made of yoreFor echoes to Thy birthday song.
Unbind thine eyes, with thine own soul confer,Look on the sins that made thy life unclean,Behold how poor thy vaunted virtues were,How weak thy faith, thy deeds how small and mean,How far from thy high dreams thy life hath been,How poor thy use of all thou hast received,How little of all God’s glory thou hast seen,How misconstrued that which thou hast perceived.Turn not thine eyes away from thine unworth,The cup of shame drink to the bitter lees;And when thou art lowerèd to the least on earth,And in the dust makest common cause with these,Then shall kind arms enfold thee, bringing peace,The Earth, thy Mother, shall assuage thy pain,Her woods and fields, Her quiet streams and seasShall touch thy soul, and make thee whole again.But if thy heart holds fast one secret sin,If one vile script thy soul shrinks to erase,The mighty Mother cannot bring thee inUnto the happy, holy, healing place;But thou shalt weep in darkness, out of grace,And miss the light of beauty undefiled;For he who would behold Her, face to face,Must be in spirit as a little child.
Unbind thine eyes, with thine own soul confer,Look on the sins that made thy life unclean,Behold how poor thy vaunted virtues were,How weak thy faith, thy deeds how small and mean,How far from thy high dreams thy life hath been,How poor thy use of all thou hast received,How little of all God’s glory thou hast seen,How misconstrued that which thou hast perceived.Turn not thine eyes away from thine unworth,The cup of shame drink to the bitter lees;And when thou art lowerèd to the least on earth,And in the dust makest common cause with these,Then shall kind arms enfold thee, bringing peace,The Earth, thy Mother, shall assuage thy pain,Her woods and fields, Her quiet streams and seasShall touch thy soul, and make thee whole again.But if thy heart holds fast one secret sin,If one vile script thy soul shrinks to erase,The mighty Mother cannot bring thee inUnto the happy, holy, healing place;But thou shalt weep in darkness, out of grace,And miss the light of beauty undefiled;For he who would behold Her, face to face,Must be in spirit as a little child.
Unbind thine eyes, with thine own soul confer,Look on the sins that made thy life unclean,Behold how poor thy vaunted virtues were,How weak thy faith, thy deeds how small and mean,How far from thy high dreams thy life hath been,How poor thy use of all thou hast received,How little of all God’s glory thou hast seen,How misconstrued that which thou hast perceived.
Turn not thine eyes away from thine unworth,The cup of shame drink to the bitter lees;And when thou art lowerèd to the least on earth,And in the dust makest common cause with these,Then shall kind arms enfold thee, bringing peace,The Earth, thy Mother, shall assuage thy pain,Her woods and fields, Her quiet streams and seasShall touch thy soul, and make thee whole again.
But if thy heart holds fast one secret sin,If one vile script thy soul shrinks to erase,The mighty Mother cannot bring thee inUnto the happy, holy, healing place;But thou shalt weep in darkness, out of grace,And miss the light of beauty undefiled;For he who would behold Her, face to face,Must be in spirit as a little child.
NOW BEING PUBLISHEDThe New Popular EditionOF THEWorks ofGeorge MeredithCrown 8vo, 6s. each.
With Frontispieces byBernard Partridge,Harrison Miller, and others.
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In the TidewayBy FLORA ANNIE STEEL(Author of “Miss Stuart’s Legacy,” “On the Face of theWaters,” etc.)6s.
“One has grown accustomed to the association of Mrs. Steel’s name with novels which deal exclusively with Indians and Anglo-Indians. Such powerful and remarkable books as ‘The Potter’s Thumb’ and ‘On the Face of the Waters,’ point to a specialism which is becoming one of the salient features of modern fiction; but ‘In the Tideway,’ although dealing entirely with England and Scotland, presents the same keen and unerring grasp of character, the same faculty of conveying local atmosphere and colour, the same talent for creating strong and dramatic situations, and the same originality of thought and expression.... It is too late in the day to speak of Mrs. Steel’s position. This is assured, butthis book adds greatly to an established position.It is profoundly impressive.”“Wonderfully bright and lively both in dialogue and incidents.”—Scotsman.“Admirably written.”—Glasgow Herald.“The story is beyond question powerful. The characters are life-like and the dialogue is bright and natural.”—Manchester Guardian.“As it is, the book is a sheer triumph of skill, one degree perhaps less valuable than a fully conceived presentation of the actual, but none the less admirable within its limits. There is care shown in every character.... But the real art, perhaps, lies less in the sequence of events or the portrayal of character, than in just this subtle suggestion everywhere of the abiding causeless mystery of land and sea.”—Academy.
“One has grown accustomed to the association of Mrs. Steel’s name with novels which deal exclusively with Indians and Anglo-Indians. Such powerful and remarkable books as ‘The Potter’s Thumb’ and ‘On the Face of the Waters,’ point to a specialism which is becoming one of the salient features of modern fiction; but ‘In the Tideway,’ although dealing entirely with England and Scotland, presents the same keen and unerring grasp of character, the same faculty of conveying local atmosphere and colour, the same talent for creating strong and dramatic situations, and the same originality of thought and expression.... It is too late in the day to speak of Mrs. Steel’s position. This is assured, butthis book adds greatly to an established position.It is profoundly impressive.”
“Wonderfully bright and lively both in dialogue and incidents.”—Scotsman.
“Admirably written.”—Glasgow Herald.
“The story is beyond question powerful. The characters are life-like and the dialogue is bright and natural.”—Manchester Guardian.
“As it is, the book is a sheer triumph of skill, one degree perhaps less valuable than a fully conceived presentation of the actual, but none the less admirable within its limits. There is care shown in every character.... But the real art, perhaps, lies less in the sequence of events or the portrayal of character, than in just this subtle suggestion everywhere of the abiding causeless mystery of land and sea.”—Academy.
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PRICE SIX SHILLINGSDraculaByBRAM STOKER
“One of the most enthralling and unique romances ever written.”—The Christian World.
“The very weirdest of weird tales.”—Punch.“Its fascination is so great that it is impossible to lay it aside.”—The Lady.“It holds us enthralled.”—The Literary World.“The idea is so novel that one gasps, as it were, at its originality. A romance far above the ordinary production.”—St. Paul’s.“Much loving and happy human nature, much heroism, much faithfulness, much dauntless hope, so that as one phantasmal ghastliness follows another in horrid swift succession the reader is always accompanied by images of devotion and friendliness.”—Liverpool Daily Post.“A most fascinating narrative.”—Dublin Evening Herald.“While it will thrill the reader, it will fascinate him too much to put it down till he has finished it.”—Bristol Mercury.“It is just one of those books which will inevitably be widely read and talked about.”—Lincoln Mercury.“A preternatural story of singular power. The book is bound to be a success.”—Dublin Freeman’s Journal.“The characters are limned in a striking manner.”—Manchester Courier.“A decidedly able as exceptionally interesting and dramatically told story.”—Sheffield Telegraph.“We strongly recommend all readers of a sensitive nature or weak nerves to abstain from following the diabolic adventures of Count Dracula.”—Sheffield Independent.“Arrests and holds the attention by virtue of new ideas, treated in an uncommon style. Throughout the book there is not a dull passage.”—Shrewsbury Chronicle.“Singularly entertaining.”—Birmingham Daily Mail.“Fascinates the imagination and keeps the reader chained.”—Western Times(Exeter).“We commend it to the attention of readers who like their literary fare strong, and at the same time healthy.”—Oban Times.“The most original work of fiction in this almost barren season.”—Black and White.“We read it with a fascination which was irresistible.”—Birmingham Gazette.“The spell of the book, while one is reading it, is simply perfect.”—Woman.“The most blood-curdling novel of the paralysed century.”—Gloucester Journal.“The sensation of the season.”—Weekly Liverpool Courier.
“The very weirdest of weird tales.”—Punch.
“Its fascination is so great that it is impossible to lay it aside.”—The Lady.
“It holds us enthralled.”—The Literary World.
“The idea is so novel that one gasps, as it were, at its originality. A romance far above the ordinary production.”—St. Paul’s.
“Much loving and happy human nature, much heroism, much faithfulness, much dauntless hope, so that as one phantasmal ghastliness follows another in horrid swift succession the reader is always accompanied by images of devotion and friendliness.”—Liverpool Daily Post.
“A most fascinating narrative.”—Dublin Evening Herald.
“While it will thrill the reader, it will fascinate him too much to put it down till he has finished it.”—Bristol Mercury.
“It is just one of those books which will inevitably be widely read and talked about.”—Lincoln Mercury.
“A preternatural story of singular power. The book is bound to be a success.”—Dublin Freeman’s Journal.
“The characters are limned in a striking manner.”—Manchester Courier.
“A decidedly able as exceptionally interesting and dramatically told story.”—Sheffield Telegraph.
“We strongly recommend all readers of a sensitive nature or weak nerves to abstain from following the diabolic adventures of Count Dracula.”—Sheffield Independent.
“Arrests and holds the attention by virtue of new ideas, treated in an uncommon style. Throughout the book there is not a dull passage.”—Shrewsbury Chronicle.
“Singularly entertaining.”—Birmingham Daily Mail.
“Fascinates the imagination and keeps the reader chained.”—Western Times(Exeter).
“We commend it to the attention of readers who like their literary fare strong, and at the same time healthy.”—Oban Times.
“The most original work of fiction in this almost barren season.”—Black and White.
“We read it with a fascination which was irresistible.”—Birmingham Gazette.
“The spell of the book, while one is reading it, is simply perfect.”—Woman.
“The most blood-curdling novel of the paralysed century.”—Gloucester Journal.
“The sensation of the season.”—Weekly Liverpool Courier.
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The Folly of Pen HarringtonBy JULIAN STURGIS. 6s.
“Decidedly to be recommended as light and lively reading.”—Manchester Guardian.
“Very pleasant reading indeed.”—Glasgow Herald.
“The tale throughout is fascinating.”—Dundee Advertiser.
“A thoroughly entertaining story.”—Daily Telegraph.
“Bright, piquant and thoroughly entertaining.”—The World.
“A clever and brightly-written novel.”—Black and White.
“Will hold its own with any work of the same class that has appeared during the last half-dozen years.”—The Speaker.
Green Fire: A Story of the Western Islands
By FIONA MACLEOD,
Author of “The Sin Eater,” “Pharais,” “The Mountain Lovers,” etc.Crown 8vo, 6s.
“There are few in whose hands the pure threads have been so skilfully and delicately woven as they have in Fiona Macleod’s.”—Pall Mall Gazette.
The Laughter of Peterkin
A Re-telling of Old Stories of the Celtic Wonderworld.
By FIONA MACLEOD.
Crown 8vo, 6s. Illustrated.
A book for young and old.
Odd Stories
By FRANCES FORBES ROBERTSON.
Crown 8vo, 6s.
The Dark Way of Love
From the French of M. Charles le Goffic.
Translated by E. WINGATE RINDER.
Some Observations of a Foster Parent
By JOHN CHARLES TARVER.
Crown 8vo, 6s.
“If there were more schoolmasters of the class to which Mr. Tarver evidently belongs, schoolmasters would be held in greater honour by those who have suffered at their hands. His ‘Observations of a Foster Parent’ are excellent reading; we hope they will reach the British parent. He may be assured the book is never dull.”—Glasgow Herald.
“A series of readable and discursive essays on Education. The book deserves to be read.”—Manchester Guardian.
“The book is one which all parents should diligently read.”—Daily Mail.
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The Amazing MarriageByGEORGE MEREDITHCrown 8vo, 6s.
“To say that Mr. Meredith is at his best in ‘The Amazing Marriage’ is to say that he has given us a masterpiece.”—Daily News.
“Mr. Meredith belongs to the great school of writers of whom Aristophanes, Rabelais, Montaigne, Fielding, are some of the most splendid examples. Mr. Meredith’s style is not ... so obscure as it is often represented to be.”—Athenæum.
“Carinthia will take her place ... in the long gallery of those Meredithian women whom all literary Europe delights to honour.”—Daily Chronicle.
“By George Meredith! Those three words have a welcome sound for reviewers.”—Literary World.
“We have said enough to show that Mr. Meredith’s plot is excellently conceived and excellently carried out.”—Standard.
“Most novels are merely dramas with padded stage directions. Mr. Meredith’s, everybody knows, are otherwise. His novels are always human life....”—The Star.
“Wholly delightful.”—Black and White.
“This is a book in which, to use Mr. Meredith’s own expression, you jump to his meaning.”—Westminster Gazette.
“The book is full of wise, deep, and brilliant things.”—Scotsman.
“This latest example of Mr. Meredith’s quality is marked by observation, wit, and variegated fancy enough to deck out a gross of novels of the average sort.”—Morning Post.
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London City ChurchesBYA. E. DANIELLWITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BYLEONARD MARTINWith a Map showing the position of each ChurchImperial 16mo, 6s.
The intention of this book is to present to the public a concise account of each of the churches of the City of London. If any reader should be induced to explore for himself these very interesting, but little known buildings, wherein he cannot fail to find ample to reward him for his pains, the object of the writer will have been attained.
This volume is profusely illustrated from drawings specially made by Mr. Leonard Martin, and from photographs which have been prepared expressly for this work.
“The author of this book knows the City churches one and all, and has studied their monuments and archives with the patient reverence of the true antiquary, and, armed with the pen instead of the chisel, he has done his best to give permanent record to their claims on the nation, as well as on the man in the street.”—Leeds Mercury.“His interesting text is accompanied by numerous illustrations, many of them full-page, and altogether his book is one which has every claim to a warm welcome from those who have a taste for ecclesiastical archæology.”—Glasgow Herald.“This is an interesting and descriptive account of the various churches still extant in London, and is illustrated by several excellent photographs.... His work will be of value to the antiquarian, and of interest to the casual observer.”—Western Morning News.“Mr. Daniell’s work will prove very interesting reading, as he has evidently taken great care in obtaining all the facts concerning the City churches, their history and associations.”—London.“The illustrations to this book are good, and it deserves to be widely read.”—Morning Post.
“The author of this book knows the City churches one and all, and has studied their monuments and archives with the patient reverence of the true antiquary, and, armed with the pen instead of the chisel, he has done his best to give permanent record to their claims on the nation, as well as on the man in the street.”—Leeds Mercury.
“His interesting text is accompanied by numerous illustrations, many of them full-page, and altogether his book is one which has every claim to a warm welcome from those who have a taste for ecclesiastical archæology.”—Glasgow Herald.
“This is an interesting and descriptive account of the various churches still extant in London, and is illustrated by several excellent photographs.... His work will be of value to the antiquarian, and of interest to the casual observer.”—Western Morning News.
“Mr. Daniell’s work will prove very interesting reading, as he has evidently taken great care in obtaining all the facts concerning the City churches, their history and associations.”—London.
“The illustrations to this book are good, and it deserves to be widely read.”—Morning Post.
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Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.The Shoulder of ShastaByBRAM STOKERAuthor of“Dracula.”
“Will be one of the most popular romances, in one volume, of the season now opening. It is chiefly remarkable for the very marked and superior descriptive power displayed by the author in his rich and inspiring picture of the scenery of the Shasta Mountain.... So entirely unconventional, humorous, and bizarre, as to be quite unique.... The composition is bold and lucid.... He is an accomplished artist, and shows here at his best.... Mr. Bram Stoker will add widely to his reputation by this.”—Irish Times.
“A pure and well-told story.”—Glasgow Herald.
“The story is charmingly written, and deserves to be read for its brilliant open-air passages, and the portrait it contains of Grizzly Dick.”—Daily News.
“Mr. Bram Stoker has given the reading world one of the breeziest and most picturesque tales of life on the Pacific slope that has been penned for many a long day.”—Daily Telegraph.
“Mr. Stoker seems quite at home in picturing the wild beauty of Californian scenery.... ‘The Shoulder of Shasta’ is eminently fresh and readable.”—Globe.
“It is a capital story.”—Bristol Times and Mirror.
“The story is gracefully conceived, and wrought out with considerable skill.... A readable and entertaining work.”—Scotsman.
“ ‘The Shoulder of Shasta’ may fairly be classed among the books to be read and enjoyed.”—Yorkshire Post.
“A pleasant story of life in Western America.... Fresh and unconventional.”—Publishers’ Circular.
“Mr. Bram Stoker’s new book is a peculiarly bright and breezy story of Californian life.... There is nothing laboured in this description, no straining after undue effect.... The language is simple, yet the effect is always satisfying, and the word-picture is complete.”—Liverpool Daily Post.
“The narrative is entertaining throughout, with eloquent descriptions of scenery.”—Academy.
“Mr. Bram Stoker’s story is unflagging, full of vigour, and capital reading from end to end; moreover, it conveys a vivid picture of life and manners in a corner of the world better known to him than to the majority of those who will read his book.”—Standard.
The Fortune of a SpendthriftAND OTHER ITEMSByR. ANDOMAuthor of “We Three and Troddles,” “The Strange Adventures of RogerWilkins,” etc., etc.ANDFRED HAREWOOD
“Lightly, briskly, and pleasantly written.”—Scotsman.
“The adventures of a spendthrift, which form the principal feature of the book, are related with so much dramatic force that any improbabilities of the plot are forgotten in the reader’s eagerness to learn thedénouement.... Treated with freshness in a pleasant, graphic style, and a lively interest is cleverly sustained.... They are all told with spirit and vivacity, and show no little skill in their descriptive passages.”—Literary World.
“A collection of brightly-written short stories, well adapted for a holiday afternoon.”—Globe.
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DraculaBy BRAM STOKER.Price Six Shillings.
“The reader hurries on breathless from the first page to the last, afraid to miss a single word.”—Daily Telegraph.
“Unquestionably a striking example of imaginative power.”—Morning Post.
“The most daring venture into the supernatural I have ever come across.”—Truth.
“One of the best things in the supernatural line that we have been lucky enough to hit upon.”—Pall Mall Gazette.
“A story of very real power.”—The Speaker.
“One of the weirdest romances of late years.”—Lloyd’s Newspaper.
“We have never read any work which so powerfully affected the imagination.”—North British Daily Mail.
“Interesting almost to fascination.”—Gloucester Journal.
“An exciting story from beginning to end.”—The Newsagent.
“Told in a way to hold the reader spell-bound.”—Sunderland Weekly Echo.
“Contains many passages of rare power and beauty.”—Dundee Advertiser.
“Will remain unique amongst the terrors which paralyse our nerves at bedtime.”—Daily Chronicle.
“The story is indeed a strange and fascinating one.”—Northern Whig.
“I soon became horribly enthralled, and could not choose but read on—on—until the lights burned blue and my blood ran cold.”—The Referee.
“No other writer of the day could have produced so marvellous a book.”—The British Weekly.
“The new wild and weird ‘Vampire’ story.”—The Morning.
An Indian Story.His Majesty’s Greatest SubjectA Novel.By S. S. THORBURN, I.C.S.Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
“Mr. Thorburn interests us immensely in his story on his theories, and in the daring romance of his situations.”—Bombay Gazette.
“A very romantic and interesting story.”—Scotsman.
“Mr. Thorburn may be congratulated ... a daring departure from the ways of story writers.”—Glasgow Herald.
Chin-Chin-WaBy CHARLES HANNAN, F.R.G.S.Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
“Chin-Chin-Wa is a cleverly realised study of an Englishman who turns Chinaman.”—Daily Chronicle.
“Delightful and dramatic.”—British Review.
A Sturdy Beggar and Lady Bramber’sGhost
Two Stories byCHARLES CHARRINGTON.Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
“Two stories full of merit.”—Western Mail.
“An original turn of thought, and a vivacious style.”—The Globe.
The Love of an Obsolete WomanCHRONICLED BY HERSELF.Cloth extra, 3s. 6d.
“The suppressed fire, the pregnant brevity, the still acute misery, all tell that in these pages a human soul is written down.”—Aberdeen Free Press.
“The story of the main episode in a human life is told in these pages with a convincing simplicity, directness, and power, such as we rarely find.... We cannot think of what we have read as a fiction; it reads like a piece of sincere autobiography, as absolutely frank as that of Samuel Pepys; and though it is constructed with more art—a very delicate art—we have no consciousness of this as we read, only when we lay the volume aside and begin to think about it.... In all it aims at the story is absolutely perfect.”—Birmingham Daily Post.
“We may frankly say that this little volume is quite the strongest that has recently been written on the burning question of the relations of the sexes.”—Manchester Guardian.
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Hans van DonderA Romance of Boer Life.By CHARLES MONTAGUE, Author of “The Vigil.”Fcap. 8vo, 2s. 6d.“Mr. Montague has written another charming romance.”—Scotsman.“Admirably told. The descriptions of Big Game Shooting are highlyexciting.”—Glasgow Herald.Torriba By JOHN CAMERON GRANT.Fcap. 8vo, 2s. 6d.“Torriba is unquestionably bold in treatment and well written.”—Globe.Madge o’ the Pool By WILLIAM SHARP.Fcap. 8vo, 2s. 6d.“Excellent.”—Athenæum.A Writer of Fiction A Novel.By CLIVE HOLLAND,Author of “My Japanese Wife.”Cloth extra, 2s. 6d.“Intensely interesting.”—Glasgow Daily Mail.“A striking story.”—Pall Mall Gazette.The Love of an Obsolete WomanCHRONICLED BY HERSELF.2s. 6d.“A fascinating book. True to life and highly artistic.”—Publishers’Circular.Angela’s Lover BY DOROTHEA GERARDPaper, 1s. Cloth extra, 2s.“Charming.”—Scotsman.A Full Confession BY F. C. PHILLIPS1s. net.“In brief—direct and forcible.”—Literary World.The Parasite BY CONAN DOYLE1s. net.ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO2 WHITEHALL GARDENS WESTMINSTER
“The Game of Polo”By T. F. DALE(“Stoneclink”of“The Field”)Illustrated byLillian Smythe,Cuthbert Bradley, andCrawford Wood; and aPhotogravure Portrait of Mr. JOHN WATSON.Demy 8vo. One Guinea net.
“Likely to rank as the standard work on the subject.”—Morning Post.
“What the author does not know about it is not knowledge.”—Pall Mall Gazette.
“Will doubtless be of great use to beginners.”—Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic.
“A charming addition to the library of those who are devoted to the game.”—The Globe.
The Art and Pastime of CyclingByR. J. MACREDY and A. J. WILSONNew Edition, and in a large measure rewritten. Profusely illustrated.Cloth, 1s. 6d. Paper Cover, 1s.
“One of the most complete books on Cycling—deals with every phase of the noble Sport.”—Cycle and Camera.
“An eminently useful handbook.”—South Africa.
“Full of information.”—Scotsman.
“A great fund of useful and practical information.”—The Field.
“The Fourth Edition of this book, and better than ever.... No cyclist’s library is complete without it.”—Bicycling News.
With Plumer in MatabelelandBy FRANK W. SYKESWith numerous Illustrations in the text, and 35 Full-page Plates and Two Maps.Demy 8vo, 15s. net.
“Operations of the Force during the Rebellion of 1896 are described in great detail, and in a very interesting fashion.”—Financial Times.
“Mr. Sykes served as a trooper in the M.R.F., and depicts with much point and piquancy the life of the rank and file of that corps as it presented itself to him throughout the campaign. Still more delightful is the racy vein in which the humours of the situation are recounted. Mr. Sykes’ narrative of ‘Massacres and Escapes’ is a noble record. Many incidents not hitherto mentioned of pluck and heroism are alluded to.His book is one of the best of its class we have yet had the pleasure of reviewing.”—South Africa.
“The chapter on the Religion of the Matabele is well worth reading, so from first page to last is Mr. Sykes’ book.”—Daily News.
“The best illustrated and most generally interesting volume.... Frank, catholic, fearless, and generous. I congratulate him, and also his assistants on a notable volume.”—African Critic.
Imperial DefenceBy Sir CHARLES DILKE and SPENSER WILKINSONNew and Revised Edition.2s. 6d.
“To urge our countrymen to prepare, whilst there is yet time, for a defence that is required alike by interest, honour, and duty, and by the best traditions of the nation’s history.”—Daily Mail.
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The Paston Letters,1422-1509Edited by JAMES GAIRDNEROF THE PUBLIC RECORD OFFICE3 Vols. Fcap. 8vo. With 3 Photogravure Frontispieces,cloth gilt extra, or paper label uncut, 16s. net.
These letters are the genuine correspondence of a family in Norfolk during the Wars of the Roses. As such, they are altogether unique in character; yet the language is not so antiquated as to present any serious difficulty to the modern reader. The topics of the letters relate partly to the private affairs of the family, and partly to the stirring events of the time: and the correspondence includes State papers, love letters, bailiff’s accounts, sentimental poems, jocular epistles, etc.